


Mistakes Like Fractures

by idiotbrothers



Category: Eminem (Musician), Machine Gun Kelly (Musician)
Genre: Ableist Language, Age Difference, Angst, Body Image, Closure, Depression, Developing Relationship, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Lovers, Happy Ending, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Lack of Communication, Love Confessions, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Kells, Personal Growth, Power Dynamics, Roughness, Self-Esteem Issues, Social Media, Substance Abuse, TL;DR they're both clowns, sticking this in the Eminem fandom tag too this time so you know I mean business
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 05:08:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30033528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/idiotbrothers/pseuds/idiotbrothers
Summary: To Colson, it feels like every time he pulls, Em pushes.
Relationships: Colson Baker | Machine Gun Kelly/Eminem
Comments: 12
Kudos: 29





	Mistakes Like Fractures

**Author's Note:**

> _If I touch the rawest nerve, all I want is for us not to hurt_  
>  - **Eminem** , "Bad Husband" 
> 
> _This bitter place was built for you  
>  Sit by the fire, tell me true  
> Don't blind my eyes, turn them blue  
> and then I'll dry my face on you_  
> - **Kyuss** , "100°"
> 
> _I've got rocks in my chest and  
>  garbage for brains  
> I'm standing my ground and I  
> won't be persuaded  
> I've decided myself that I  
> could use a change, and I'd be silly to think that I've  
> been well-behaved  
> but the messes I've made became your favorite stains_  
> - **Single Mothers** , "Marathon"
> 
> ━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
> 
> Fic title refers to the song of the same name by Knocked Loose.
> 
> This fic was inspired by a [post](https://metalheadkells.tumblr.com/post/643853404255518720) by **candyflosskells** on tumblr. Shoutout to the emgk group mind. 
> 
> Obligatory RPF Disclaimer: Shit's fake! I'm just having "fun". 🙂

It’s hard to pinpoint exactly when it had happened, but somewhere in the middle of Colson’s interminable cycle of hookups with Em - bookended in those early days by frowning declarations that _this’ll be the last time_ \- they had both seemed to accept that they wouldn’t be stopping anytime soon.  
  
Colson had clung onto the last remaining scraps of his antagonism for as long as he could, but it was pretty difficult to keep up a macho façade when the subject of your antagonism was regularly fucking the shit out of you. So eventually, and with little fuss, he’d dropped the act. He no longer saw a point in pretending he didn’t genuinely look forward to seeing Em when he was in town, or like sleeping with Em (though there wasn't much actual sleeping involved) was some kind of long-running mistake that he regretted every time it happened.  
  
In truth, their _arrangement_ was the most exhilarating thing that had happened to him in years, and that was kind of saying something. It would seep out of him sometimes; this staggering, cosmic exhilaration; in small ways.  
  
He’d clutch desperately at Em when they were both coming down amid a chorus of heavy breaths and hammering heartbeats, fingers digging into Em's skin to the point that he occasionally elicited a small sound of protest from him that he felt in his chest. He’d find himself smiling at the strangest moments, and whenever Em caught one of those smiles too, he’d roll his eyes or mutter something acidic under his breath and Colson would swallow the smile back down, keeping the glowing ember of it hidden inside his throat. He’d text Em at odd hours when they’d been apart for longer than a couple of weeks, TikToks of someone’s cringy grandpa paired with the caption, _thinking of u_ 🥰, and he’d laugh out loud - alone in his bed at ass o’clock - whenever Em would actually text him back, usually with some sort of, _I’ll kill you_. He’d try to kiss Em on sight even though he knows all too well how resistant he can be to intimate gestures unless his rigid mental barriers have just been eroded by sex chemicals, and would say nothing when Em would evade his mouth with a jerk of his head; presenting him with the chilly, unwelcoming face he most often wears in public.  
  
And throughout it all, Colson would ache, and ache, and ache. 

* * *

  
“You see this shit?” 

Colson waves his phone in Em’s face until he bats it away in annoyance, scowling. “Don’t do that,” he grumbles, and Colson, undeterred by Em’s obvious disinterest, continues, “So, like, I was papped walking out of Saddle Ranch with Megan Fox the other week. We’re friends. Totally innocent.”  
  
Em makes a dubious snorting noise that Colson talks over. “ _Anyway_. All the comments about it are either like, _O-M-G hottest couple ever_ , or like, _who the fuck is that crackhead she’s with_. I’m seein’ a _lot_ of that second one.” 

“Good for you,” Em says, returning his eyes to something he’s doing on his own phone. He’s in this slightly oversized, worn t-shirt that Colson loves because it makes him look soft around the edges, or something; and his hair is sticking up the littlest bit at the top of his head; and he’s doing that thing where he rolls the links of his necklace between his thumb and forefinger while he’s lost in thought; and Colson openly stares at him until he notices.  
  
“What?” 

Colson’s heart shudders at the eye contact as if it’s new. He swallows, his tongue feeling thick and clumsy in his mouth. “That’s all you have to say about it?” 

Em blinks, a flash of unmistakable annoyance crossing his face. “About you bagging Megan Fox? You want me to break out the keg? Put you on my shoulders and do a little dance?” 

Colson laughs, the sound torn from his throat involuntarily at the sheer ludicrousness of that image. “Asshole,” Colson says, and his features feel like they’re twisted in some unattractive combination of a smile and a frown. “I told you, we’re just friends. I meant, like… Do I really look _that_ fucked next to her?”  
  
His voice had dropped into this unguarded, vulnerable place without him meaning it to, and the other questions he’s always burning to ask Em are crowding at the tip of his tongue, waiting to spill out at the right moment. _Does my body gross you out? Do you get jealous when I’m seen with other people? Do you think about me when we’re not together? Does this mean anything to you at all?_

“Yeah,” Em says bluntly, in answer to the only question he’d actually asked, and it feels like the bottom of Colson’s stomach drops out. He crosses his arms around himself and tries to school his expression into one of calm acceptance. Em seems to see right past that, because he scrunches his face in an approximation of a scowl and adds, “I wouldn’t be fucking you if you were ugly.”

This only makes Colson feel worse. “Oh,” he says weakly. He feels like he could actually _cry_ , his insides writhing like a tangle of venomous snakes and his fingernails biting into his own palms. Stupid. So stupid. He changes the subject to keep his emotions from bursting forth and causing a fight, but Em’s words loom menacingly over his head for the rest of the day, stinging him when he gets too close.

* * *

  
“I missed you,” Colson says, the admission only feeling safe because he’s not looking at Em, has his face tucked into the crook of Em’s neck and Em’s hand rifling gently through his hair and post-coital bliss warming every inch of his body. 

“It’s only been a week,” Em says, and there’s a rare smile in his voice, so Colson lifts his head to catch a glimpse, his face flushing prematurely.  
  
“Too fuckin’ long,” Colson insists. He angles for a kiss, and Em meets his mouth with an indulgent sort of enthusiasm. When they break apart, Colson drinks in every detail of Em’s lingering smile, wishing he knew how to summon it at will. He can’t get enough of how different Em’s eyes look when he lets himself smile, transforming his entire face in a way that deepens the fracture forming across Colson’s heart in threatening increments.  
  
“Quit staring,” Em says abruptly, poking him in the shoulder, and adds, “Bitch,” like it’s an afterthought.  
  
Colson’s eyes drop to Em’s collarbone, and his ears burn with shame as he fiercely prays he didn’t ruin the evening, didn’t send Em retreating back into the dark cave in his head that seems to be his preferred home when they’re together.  
  
“Hey,” Em says, brushing his knuckles against his cheek, and Colson shivers at the touch, horribly close to falling apart. “I didn’t mean anything by that,” Em continues; cautious, apologetic. “Just a reflex.” 

_Oh_.  
  
Colson hides his face in the side of Em’s neck once more, his mouth trembling traitorously as Em says things that aren’t quite _I missed you too_ , but are as close to it as he ever gets. 

* * *

  
_Paul’s on my ass about the paps_ , reads a text on Colson’s screen from Em.  
  
It’s one in the afternoon, and he’s just woken up, sleep-rusted gears in his brain clanking as he tries to make sense of the message. A ‘good morning’ would have been nice. 

He writes:  
  
 _do they have something on us?_

Em texts back almost immediately.  
  
 _Nothing they can use. But we have 2 be more careful._

Fighting down simultaneous swells of irritation and bile, and still very much foggy-headed, Colson responds: 

_it’s not like we ever do anything in public. everyone would just assume we have a collab coming._

And to that, Em texts: 

_I can’t spin that._

Colson frowns, feeling a preemptive stab of hurt. 

_what’s that supposed to mean?_

The reply:

_What it sounds like. I don’t want people thinking we’re working together. It’s bad for business._

Colson’s pulse is racing, his breaths coming out in harsh spurts. 

_fuck you it’s bad for business. I’m doing great fucking numbers right now. sure I haven’t put out a rap record in a min but there’s still an appetite for it._

Colson glares at the three little blinking dots on his screen as Em formulates a response, instinctively knowing he won’t like it. Even so, when Em comes back with, _I’m not trying to hurt your feelings. Our brands just aren’t compatible_ , Colson has to get up and take a lap around the room, self-loathing thoughts bristling in the unnavigable labyrinth of his mind like stinking beasts.  
  
When he gets in the shower later, he runs the water as hot as he possibly can, feeling it strip away his dead skin cells and with them, the suffocating coil of humiliation around his throat. 

* * *

  
Em sends him apology flowers.

They’re waiting for him on his kitchen island when Colson gets home a few days after he started giving Em the cold shoulder; an extravagant arrangement of multicolored tulips that practically sucks the air out of the room. Colson is dimly aware of Baze asking him, _Who’s the girl_ , but he’s too distracted to respond, going over to search for a card or a note, which he finds discreetly tucked into the sky-blue ribbon knotted at the base of the bouquet. Printed on pastel pink cardstock in a stranger’s hunched, slightly smudged scrawl is the following message: 

**_K: The guy on the phone told me tulips symbolize new beginnings. I wanted to get you something that symbolized “I’m a fucking dick,” so hopefully this is close enough. I miss your annoying snapchats. -M_ **

Baze tries to peer over his shoulder to read it, but Colson twists to avoid him and slips the card into his pocket protectively, a smile creeping onto his face despite himself as he climbs the stairs to his room. He pulls out his phone once he gets there, and types: 

_thanks for the flowers. dick._

It’s the first thing he’s texted Em in days. It doesn’t take long for him to reply. 

_I shouldn’t have talked to you like that.  
  
_ Vindicated, he responds:

_damn right. I been taking shit from people my entire career and I don’t need more of it from u._

Em writes back:  
 _  
I know. And I hope you know that I think you’re really talented._

Colson’s eyes prickle a bit, because he does not, in fact, know that. He’s been struggling for months to make peace with the notion that his value to Em starts and ends with his skill in bed, that otherwise Em considers him to be dim-witted and sloppy and solidly average as an artist. Maybe that’s just the acerbic voice in his head talking. Or the reverberating echo of Em’s actual lyrics about him that had never faded from his memory. Either way, Em’s next text makes far more sense to him than the one previous. 

_But I still don’t want the paps sniffing around. The press coverage would be a pain in the ass if it got out that we buried the hatchet._

Colson sighs to himself, disappointment pinching at his insides. At the very least, it’s good to know where he ranks on Em’s list of priorities - somewhere above _cheap sex_ but decidedly below _PR management_. And Em is clearly making an effort to let him down _gently_ , which Colson can appreciate. 

He writes:  
  
 _ok._

And Em writes:  
  
 _We good?_

And Colson sends him a lone heart emoji. The black one, of course. 

* * *

  
When Colson is having one of his particularly bad brain days, he prefers to stay isolated, avoiding everyone in his house and letting messages pile up in his phone’s Notification Center, unread. He’s learned from experience that it’s better for everyone that way.  
  
Except… except lately, the instinct to talk to Em rears up at him on those days just as it does when he’s excited or pissed off or high on any other day. He usually fails to act on the inclination when he’s going through some shit, the weight of his poisonous thoughts keeping him trapped in his solitary cocoon of unlaundered blankets and illicit anesthesia. Today, though, the urge pierces straight through the fog in his mind, and he places a couple of calls to Em that go unanswered. Colson doesn’t give up. Slowly, with leaden fingers, he composes a text message. 

_yo I’m having a shitty day and I kinda just want to hear ur voice_

He loses track of time as he waits for Em to hit him back, sinking further and further into his own inky depths as he does. When his phone eventually vibrates against his leg, it takes him a while to summon the energy to raise it to his face and check if it’s Em who’s texting him. He sees, once he momentarily shoulders aside his sluggish blankness, that it is. 

_I’m in studio right now. Can it wait?_

Colson takes that about as well as a knife to the ribs.

He’d known it all along, hadn’t he - that Em only cares about using him to get off, that he finds him clingy and pathetic and naïve as fuck, that he’ll choose his goddamn career over Colson without question if it comes down to it. He’d been a fucking _moron_ to entertain any ideas to the contrary, even fleetingly.  
  
Colson grips at his hair with both fists and pulls hard, a jagged shard of a sob catching in his throat. He wants to tear himself apart to make the feelings stop. He wants to grab Em and shove his face in the bloody viscera of his brutalized ego and scream at him until he feels how he feels. He snatches his phone back up on a reckless whim and writes back: 

_no yeah I’ll just kms then. bye._

He tastes acid as he pitches his phone off the bed, off a cliff as far as he’s concerned, and lets it buzz away against the carpet, drowning out the sound of it with blankets pulled over his head. Colson stays like that; curled up under a mountain of flannel, unwanted tears drying on his face, self-inflicted bruises on his arms twinging; as a familiar loathsome refrain plays in his mind on a loop. _Stupid. Selfish. Manipulative. Untalented. Unworthy. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly. Ugly._  
  
When the sound of a hesitant knock at his door filters through to him as if from underwater, he thinks for a moment that he’s hallucinating it, that he wants Em here so badly that he’s manifesting impossible traces of him. Then the knock comes again, more urgent this time, and Slim’s voice calls, “Uh, Kells?” 

Colson says nothing, unwilling to face him when he’s like this. Slim waits a beat, then says, “Kells, I got someone on the phone for you. He says he ain’t hanging up until you answer.” 

Confusion bubbles to the surface of Colson’s mind, and he scrubs at his face, fighting to make sense of his thoughts. Can that possibly be Em, or is he just mired in sad delusions? How would he have even gotten in contact with Slim so quickly? Colson _has_ to know.  
  
He drags himself out of bed and shuffles to the door, wiping his face with his hands again for good measure before he opens it the slightest crack. “I’ll talk to him,” Colson says, his voice coming out unpleasantly guttural, and he can barely just see Slim’s concerned frown deepen through the opening in the door.  
  
Slim passes his phone to him, and starts to say, “Are you - ” but Colson closes the door on him, unable to muster explanations or excuses. He can talk to Slim later, when he’s back to his semi-functional self.  
  
Colson wearily sinks to his knees on the floor about a foot away from his bed, and raises the receiver to his ear. “Hello?” He is timid, scraped-raw. 

“Don’t ever fucking scare me like that again,” Em says, and he’s _angry_ , so angry that Colson physically flinches at the sound of his voice. “ _Ever_ ,” Em spits, “You hear me?”  
  
Colson’s vision blurs, and he makes a kind of involuntary hiccupping noise when he tries to answer. The _sorry_ he finally manages is swollen beyond recognition, ripped from between his lips like some fleshy, vital piece of him.  
  
“Stop crying,” Em says - harsh at first - but then he isn’t angry anymore, is helpless and imploring as he repeats, “Stop crying,” his voice cracking in the middle. “Please.” 

Colson tries for him, breathing in through his nose and pressing his fist to his pounding heart.  
  
“I’m arranging a flight right now,” Em says, “I’ma be right there with you in a few hours.”  
  
Colson loses the pebble of composure he’d managed to grip onto all over again, blubbering incoherently as he tries to express some version of, _No, don’t, I’m not worth it_. 

Em shushes him, says, “You’re obviously not okay. I won’t be able to think about anything else if I don’t do this.” 

Colson lets Em hang up without giving voice to the confessions proliferating inside him; the _I’m sorry I’m such a burden_ 's, crawling beneath his flesh like an army of ants; the _I think I love you_ 's, lancing into his heart over and over again with brutal accuracy. 

* * *

  
“I think I love you,” Colson tells Em over breakfast one morning, about a month after Em flew to LA to be with him when he melted down. Em had somehow managed to endear himself to Colson’s boys before he arrived, had been allowed up to Colson’s room with minimal interference and had locked the door behind him and held Colson while he stained the collar of his shirt with snot and tears; not making him talk, just gifting him with the numbing salve of his physical presence.  
  
Now, they’re sitting side-by-side in the middle of Em’s needlessly oversized bed and eating greasy breakfast sandwiches, and Em is sleep-softened and malleable to his touch, had kissed him good morning and _cooked_ for him and set aside his respective aversions to carbs and eating in bed, for his sake.  
  
“This can’t be _that_ good,” Em says, lifting his sandwich as casually as if Colson hadn’t just ripped off a chunk of his heart and offered it to him. “The eggs are rubbery.”  
  
The eggs are far superior to any Colson has ever cooked for himself, but that is besides the point.  
  
“No,” Colson says, nudging Em’s leg with his own and making eye contact, “I’m serious. I think I…”  
  
He can’t say it again, his throat closing up as he watches the surprised realization form in Em’s eyes, and he has to look away after a tense moment, his chest tight.  
  
“Forget it,” Colson grunts, as if through a mouthful of broken glass, pushing his plate away and scooting to the edge of the bed, swinging his legs over the side of it. Em stops him with a hand to his elbow.  
  
Colson stills, too stirred up inside to move any further away, as Em climbs off the bed and comes around to stand in front of him, slotting in between his knees, cupping his face with his warm palms.  
  
“You fall in love all the time,” Em says carefully, like he’s trying his best not to sound condescending. He isn’t entirely succeeding. Colson tries to focus on his eyes, which are kind and forgiving, instead of the unflattering implication behind his words.  
  
“This is different,” Colson chokes out, “This is _real_.”  
  
He can tell Em doesn’t believe him, is yet again calculating how to let him down gently, and Colson is sick and fucking tired of being treated like a fragile basket case without two brain cells to rub together. Okay, so maybe he _is_ just some idiot manic-depressive junkie who’d gone and gotten himself hopelessly infatuated with his childhood idol. It doesn’t mean he needs to be handled with kid gloves.  
  
“Just say you don’t feel the same way,” Colson blurts, angry in spite of his best intentions.  
  
Em visibly swallows, shakes his head and says, “I think… you’re used to separating sex from, like… the _touchy-feely_ shit. So when you get both from the same person, you - ”

_Asshole. Motherfucking asshole._  
  
“I didn’t ask you to psychoanalyze me,” Colson says, jerking away from Em and standing up, only to face the wall aimlessly, shaking. 

“You’re confused,” Em insists coolly, “It’s okay.” 

“I am _not_ fucking confused,” Colson says. Well… he might be shouting now. It’s hard for him to tell through the deafening noise in his head.  
  
When Em touches the small of his back, Colson whips around, grabs him by the arm, and pulls him into a violent kiss.  
  
He kisses Em like he’s making a point, like he’s punishing him for his doubt and his quiet scorn and his million little kindnesses distracting from both; the honey dotted over the spoonful of bitter medicine that their relationship has proven to be.  
  
He bites at Em’s mouth without restraint and punctures his bottom lip with his teeth and savors the coppery tang of his blood, devouring his punched-out groans.  
  
He shoves Em against the wall face-first and pulls his pants down and makes him suck on his fingers - feeling him gag around the intrusion at first, before instinct kicks in - so he can use them to work him open, and there was a time when Em would have fucking decked him if he even vaguely hinted at them doing this, but they both know by now that he likes taking it possibly even more than Colson does, with the right person. And Colson _is_ the right person, at least when it comes to shattering Em to pieces with his mouth and his hands and his dick. He’s the _best_ person, and for as long as he lives, he’s never letting Em forget that.  
  
When they’re done, Em asks him if he’s okay, his voice scratchy with exertion and his chin on Colson’s shoulder. And Colson - feeling spent and wholly, irrevocably inadequate and right on the brink of tears - doesn’t answer. 

* * *

  
Em does a radio interview for the first time in over a full year.  
  
The only reason Colson knows it happened at all is that he gets a few weirdly foreboding texts about it from several of his industry friends. Colson has someone send him the link to what looks like a reuploaded version of the audio, and starts listening to it as he’s being chauffeured to Em’s house from the airport, anxiously fidgeting in his seat because he’s very much aware that the only reason anyone outside of his immediate circle would have mentioned it to him is if Colson came up at some point in the conversation.  
  
Neither the interviewer nor the radio station is familiar to Colson, and he finds himself tuning out the actual questions being asked, accidentally lulled into complacent tranquility by the low cadence of Em’s voice, the single voice that Colson believes he knows as intimately as his own.  
  
Em becomes audibly more animated when the discussion turns to the current state of hip hop, name-dropping emerging young artists who have earned his approval, and subtly hinting at others whom the industry has propped up for what he claims are the wrong reasons. And then the interviewer says something about the steadily growing number of artists who are pivoting away from their hip hop roots or experimenting with other genres of music, and Colson sits up straighter in his seat, subconsciously holding his breath.  
  
“I know everybody, including probably you, is over it at this point,” the interviewer says, “but…”  
  
Colson doesn’t even register the end of the question. He only hears the interviewer utter his stage name like it wholeheartedly pains him to do so, lowering his voice as if he’s a kid trying out a new cuss word; unintentionally comical. The blood rushes to Colson’s head so quickly that it makes his surroundings spin. He latches onto his armrests as Em speaks up, having paused for a few seconds to presumably gather his thoughts.  
  
“I’d rather not talk about him,” Em says, simultaneously underwhelming and relieving, to which the interviewer says, “And I don’t wanna push you. But you’ve _got_ to have an opinion, and I know we’re all interested in hearing it.”  
  
“How about you all form your own opinions for a change,” Em retorts, apparently annoyed to be asked twice. It’s a patently unfair thing for him to say, and the interviewer seems to take it personally, if his subsequent tone is any indication.  
  
“Well, from where I’m standing, it’s like… this kid that used to live in your shadow is arguably more relevant to pop culture than you are these days. That’s gotta make you feel some type of way.”  
  
Em, likely as shocked by the interviewer’s sheer gall as Colson currently is, falls silent for a beat. And then the last thread of his patience snaps.  
  
“Fine, you wanna know what I think? I think Machine Gun Kelly can _have_ his audience of braindead preteens who ain’t plugged into fuckall besides the top 50 TikTok hits. That bubble is gonna fuckin’ burst sooner than he expects, so he might as well enjoy it while it lasts. I also think if you’re gonna abandon the music that gave you your name - pussy move, by the way - then your new shit better be damn good. That’s as much as I’ll say on the subject.” 

Colson slides his headphones off with clumsy fingers, the interview continuing in a tinny, indistinct murmur through his ear pads as the buzzing in his ears crescendos. He’s so wounded by the crystal-clear disrespect Em had put on display for god knows how many listeners that he almost starts hyperventilating, black spots popping in his peripheral vision. It’s like September 2018 all over again, and Colson _can’t_ relive that ordeal, especially not after he had foolishly exposed so many of his crippling vulnerabilities to Em in the years that had elapsed since. It might actually kill him this time - if not the shame, then the heartbreak; already warping him into a small, deformed husk of himself.  
  
By the time _Em’s_ driver has taken Colson past _Em’s_ security guards and handed off his luggage to one of _Em’s_ waiting attendants, and Colson has been escorted to _Em’s_ preferred welcome spot in that one drafty corner of _Em’s_ massive foyer, he is completely numb; his thoughts an unintelligible, sludgy mass.  
  
It takes Em appearing in front of him, greeting him as laconically as he usually does when they’ve been apart for some time and need to warm up to each other again, and starting to lead the way up to his bedroom - of course - for Colson to snap out of it with a savage rush of clarity.  
  
“So you’re gonna pretend like you didn’t just take a steaming shit on me on-air? For all your fuckin’ psycho fans to hear? Again?”  
  
Em stiffens, his back to Colson, and doesn’t turn around for a moment, saying, “You weren’t supposed to know about that.”  
  
Outrage spills over in Colson’s chest, viscous and boiling hot. “Are you fucking _demented_? Of _course_ it got back to me. People hear my name in your mouth and cream their goddamn jeans over it every time. Like, I already know my socials are gonna be a disaster within the next 24 hours, and you know it too; don’t act like you don’t.”  
  
Em slowly turns around, frowning, pale-faced. “I told them to axe the whole thing. I swear I did.”  
  
“I don’t believe you,” Colson snaps, “but even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. If you let it go up, if some dickhead intern or whoever leaked it - you still said what you said.”

“I wasn’t thinkin' straight,” Em says, almost pleading, “It came out wrong, but I - ”

Colson interrupts him with a loud scoff, throwing his hands up wildly. “Smiling and nodding while you say; _you’re a coward, your art is garbage, and your fans are a joke_ ; wouldn’t make the shit taste less like shit.”  
  
Colson can sense himself slipping towards total hysteria; towards sobs and screams and accusations that he usually keeps locked beneath his ribcage surging out of him in frenetic bursts. He can’t let himself go there; can’t give Em the satisfaction of getting to play his well-practiced role of calm and clinical parent to Colson’s ill-tempered and incoherent child. So, steadying himself with a sharp intake of breath, he says, “You _ruined_ me,” and, “I hate you.”  
  
He repeats those last three words, _I hate you I hate you I hate you_ , like they’re a mantra, like they’ll shield him from Em and his goddamned ability to reach inside him and gouge into his softest parts until they rupture. Colson had enabled his own destruction, by falling for Em, by showing it. He’s finally learning his lesson. He’s breaking the cycle.  
  
“You don’t hate me,” Em says, more to himself than to Colson. He isn’t even looking at Colson; has his eyes fixed on the veined marble floor, his frown having deepened and his hands having balled into fists at his sides.  
  
Colson could say something like, _I’m done letting you tell me how I feel_. He could say something like, _Stay mad, motherfucker; it can’t hurt me anymore_.  
  
Instead, he turns and walks out to Em’s front door without another word, not even faltering when Em practically yelps his name with uncharacteristic desperation. 

* * *

  
They stop hooking up. They stop talking.  
  
To Colson, it almost feels like Em _died_ ; that’s how completely they cut each other off.  
  
If Em were to give him a call or leave him a text, anything to indicate the slightest shred of sincere remorse, Colson doesn’t think he’d have the strength of will to ignore it - would probably respond right away and get himself caught in Em’s web once again. But Em doesn’t reach out, so Colson doesn’t reach out.  
  
It’s better this way. The rational part of him accepts that, but the markedly irrational part of him - which often consumes him whole - misses Em with such an intensity that it makes him malfunction without warning; tears inching down his face when he trips over his carpet and hears Em fondly saying, _Clumsy-ass_ , in his ear; zoning out in the middle of a songwriting session with Mod when he remembers Em spontaneously scribbling down lyrics as they came to him at the most unlikely moments - on fast food napkins during a midnight meal in Em’s hotel room; on a Nike receipt snatched from the gift bag Em had gruffly proffered to Colson on the evening of their ten-month anniversary; even on Colson’s hand, once, before Colson had to disappear for a couple of months for a big-budget movie role.  
  
Colson misses geeking out over music with Em, giddily introducing him to albums that wouldn’t normally be his speed and adding to a sprawling list in his Notes app titled “M recs 🔥” every time Em gushed about something he was listening to on repeat, that special gleam in his eyes that could only be attributed to his love of the craft.  
  
Colson misses being able to casually borrow Em’s expertly trained ear for a second or third opinion on different mixes of a random single he’d be stuck on, and watching him articulate production mistakes and possible solutions within minutes of listening, patient and nonjudgmental whenever Colson would ask follow-up questions.  
  
He misses the tender, permissive version of Em that he would wake up to on some mornings, tangling his limbs with Colson’s and cracking corny jokes about Colson’s erection jutting into his hip and laughing - _laughing_ \- when Colson held him down and captured his mouth in a morning-breath-flavored kiss as punishment.  
  
He misses counting on Em’s sturdy arms and Em’s sturdier convictions to guide him home when he got lost, floating somewhere above himself in a miasma of sorrow.  
  
He misses how powerful he felt when he rode Em’s dick or fucked Em’s throat - slashing away at his big, bad image with every thrust; reducing his filthy, fire-starting mouth to nothing but stifled moans and the occasional whimper.  
  
Colson is so caught up in missing Em that he finds himself gradually forgetting why they’d broken things off at all. He knows he’s going to cave and try to call him soon if he keeps up like this, so one night, he Googles around for the offending interview that had forced him to come to his senses almost five full weeks ago now, and curls up in his bed to listen to it again, chewing on the inside of his cheek. After a tentative minute, during which he may or may not get a little misty-eyed over the sound of Em’s voice, he skips ahead to the approximate moment that they started talking about him.  
  
Em’s words - uncensored and whetted with frustration - still hurt, but it’s a dull ache, nowhere near comparable to the ache of missing him.  
  
With that terrifying revelation quickening his heartbeat, Colson shuts his eyes and lets the rest of the interview play out, the self-assuredness of Em’s voice as the conversation gets back on track somehow soothing the burn inside him.  
  
He’s taken completely by surprise when Em interrupts himself in the middle of outlining the general shape of his upcoming project to say, “Okay, hold up, I gotta walk back something I said earlier before we get too in the weeds.”  
  
He doesn’t wait for the interviewer to get a word in before he continues, “I’m sorry for goin’ off on MGK like that - I was being dishonest. What it really comes down to is, I don’t like that I don’t understand the trends so much anymore. I don’t like being reminded that the youth subcultures I used to shape left me in the dust a long time ago. Kells and artists like him are breaking boundaries, and that’s always something worth appreciating. And, like, even if the music itself isn’t necessarily for me, I do understand - after giving it a fair shot - why it’s resonating with so many people. There’s this raw emotional core to it, and that’s not something I can say about every mainstream hitmaker’s shit.”  
  
Colson’s hand is over his mouth. His face and ears are flaming hot.  
  
His thoughts are frozen for a long moment on the fact that Em had referred to him as _Kells_ in public - not just _Machine Gun Kelly_ , or _MGK_ , or fucking _Kelly_ \- but _Kells_. It feels earth-shatteringly intimate, either in spite of or because of the fact that Em had been calling him by that nickname since the very first time they crashed into bed together.  
  
And then Colson is confronted by searing guilt, at having flown off the handle without knowing about this part of the interview, at being so willing to think the worst of Em despite his storied history of saying shit he doesn’t really mean.  
  
Colson listens until the very last second of the recording to make absolutely sure he hadn’t missed anything else, and after he stews in his own regrets, mentally berating himself to the point that his temples start throbbing, he realizes he has no idea how the internet would have reacted to Em’s abrupt addendum to his original comments about him. Maybe the social media shitstorm that Colson was expecting - leading him to fully avoid every big digital platform since he and Em imploded, paying people to post any necessary updates to his accounts on his behalf in the meantime - hadn’t actually come to pass.  
  
Colson pulls up a Safari window and types “eminem machine gun kelly” into the URL bar, scrolling past the familiar _Killshot_ thumbnail art that is always the first result, and eyeing the latest headlines.  
  


**Billboard:** _Eminem Walks Back MGK Rant, Mends Old Beef_  
 **USA Today:** _Eminem feels left behind in 2022_   
**XXL:** _Eminem Appears to End Feud With Machine Gun Kelly_   
**NME:** _Eminem apologizes to Machine Gun Kelly, talks genre-bending artists_  
 **Newsweek:** _Eminem Says MGK Fans Are ‘Braindead Preteens’ — Then Apologizes To Him_  
 **iHeartRadio:** _Eminem Makes Bizarrely Opposing Statements About Former Rival MGK_  
 **HipHopDX:** _Eminem Fans React To Leaked Interview Including Comments On Machine Gun Kelly_

  
Colson taps open the HipHopDX link and skips over the contents of the brief article in favor of the comments, of which there are many. Sorting them in order of popularity, he starts reading. 

_maybe nerf blaster kelly was onto something. em IS washed if he has 2 dig up kelly’s corpse 2 make headlines  
_ ∟ _All he has to do to make headlines is open his mouth and we all know it. Yall a bunch of fake fans fr_

_Eminem sounds more like an out of touch old man every day. If this is what’s gonna happen when he takes his annual field trip out of his studio then he should just stop talking unless it’s with a pen._

_anyone else find it hella weird that he switched his tune real quick within the SAME interview? almost like he had rosenberg or someone in his ear while it was going down  
_  
 _hope em likes mgk’s dick in his mouth cuz that shit made him look goofy as hell_  
∟ _ikr? sus._

_i dont get why everyones so pressed about it. all these articles makin it sound like em verbally sucked kelly’s shit off when all he said was he shouldnt of called his child fans retarded. why is that a big deal.  
_ ∟ _bro u sound like u didnt even listen to the interview. he said machine gun’s “music” is “raw”. he pretty much called himself irrelevant. worst fucking self-own i ever seen from him.  
_ ∟∟ _Yeah i’m out. Shit’s gay.  
_ ∟∟∟ _i mean…killing himself with pills in 2007 would a been the worst self-own. technically._  
∟∟∟∟ _fuck i miss the old Em. can we just pretend this interview is an audio deepfake?  
_  
 _He’s not wrong tho. MGK’s new shit lowkey fire_  
∟ _lmaooooo fuck outta here cocksucker_   
∟∟ _dude really? some of yall on here making urselfs look bitter asf. Em’s finally over the beef, yall should be too. EST4L._

Colson closes the window after reading that last reply, stopping himself on a good note. His stomach is churning, and his mind is resurfacing a blurry snapshot of Em’s facial expression from the day everything crumbled, when Colson had confronted him at his house. He’d looked so shaken, the color drained from his cheeks and his mouth tight, and Colson asks himself whether it’s more likely Em had wanted the interview scrubbed to protect Colson’s ego from the scalding first half, or to protect his own ego from the naked benignity of the second half.  
  
Regardless of the answer to that question, he needs to know that Em is okay, that he isn’t taking the PR hit too badly. Colson knows better than most that for all of Em’s bluff and bluster, he can be incredibly sensitive to the slightest of criticisms. Colson used to catch him obsessively Googling himself sometimes, buried ten pages deep with a furrow between his eyebrows and his thumb hovering over his lips. Colson decides to send him a text, the likeliest and lowest-pressure way to reach him. He ruminates on it for a truly stupid amount of time before he ends up going with a noncommittal, _hey_.

Em has read receipts on, because he lives in the Stone Age, so Colson knows the exact moment that Em sees and chooses to ignore his message. It makes him erupt into goosebumps.  
  
Before Colson goes to sleep that night; his eyes tired from staring at his lock screen for minutes on end, waiting for one specific notification that never comes; he figures he has no choice but to send another text that leaves less room for suspicion as to his intentions.  
  
 _I miss you. like a lot. can we talk sometime?_  
  
He shoves his phone under his pillow after the message is delivered, and sinks into a fitful sleep, his dreams erratic and fueled by anxiety. 

* * *

  
Colson wakes up, sweaty and rumpled and dream-addled, to a text message. To _the_ text message.  
  
Scrubbing at his eyes and sitting up against his headboard, he thumbs open his thread with Em and sees… a link to an Instagram post. No preview, no preface. Just a single link, sent at around 4 AM.  
  
Colson’s heart is suddenly hammering. Knowing Em and his penchant for prolonged, explosive retaliation; he’s not expecting anything good. He has to work himself up to signing in to Instagram to open the link, gritting his teeth and silently praying to the universe to give him strength.  
  
The post that loads, when he _does_ open it, is a slideshow of Notes app screenshots that had been very recently uploaded to Em’s account. Colson, like every other unfortunately Twitter-primed millennial, is accustomed to seeing redlined text against off-white under any remotely famous person’s handle and assuming _Notes app apology_. He cringes to picture Em writing one of those even for a second, bending to his audience’s disapproval like he professes never to do.  
  
But what Em posted isn’t an apology; at least, not in the conventional sense. It’s a verse. It’s a _good_ verse, incisive and bristling with meaning and crafted with consistently impressive multi-syllable rhymes. What really sets Colson’s blood on fire, though, is the _subliminal_ shit.  
  
On the surface, Em is railing against the mass media’s fickle whims and the unyielding, belligerent caricature of himself that is the only version of him that many of his supporters and detractors alike seem to accept.  
  
Just beneath the surface, he is railing against _himself_ for his significant role in confusing those same people so fundamentally about who he is and what he really stands for.  
  
And hidden beneath _that_ , in stray rose petals caught on the barbed wire of his lines, are acknowledgements of Colson specifically. He reads through the entire verse one, two, three times to collect them all - a nod to an inside joke of theirs about Interscope politics; a pun involving the name of the restaurant they’d gone to for what Colson privately considers to be their first date; a line using a _control board_ metaphor that flows into one using the initials of Colson’s first and last names for both an ironic extension of the metaphor and a confession to Colson that Em hadn’t felt like the one steering their ship.  
  
Some of the references seem perilously unsubtle to Colson compared to others, making his pulse spike, and he has to keep reminding himself that this verse wasn’t written for the average onlooker. It was written for _him_.  
  
Colson doesn’t touch the overflowing comments section. He gives the post a ‘like’ - because Em’s got him thoroughly fucked up over his words in a way that is worlds apart from the gut-wrenching mortification he’s come to expect and he _wants_ to give Em this small, public show of support and he _wants_ people to theorize as to why.  
  
And then he gives himself a brief pep talk, takes a deep breath, and calls Em.  
  
“You finally fuckin’ lost your mind, huh,” Colson says, when Em picks up. 

And Em says, “I think I love you,” the edges of the words bleeding together. 

Colson’s face crumples immediately. His voice sags like it’s weighed down by stones. “Fuck. You _did_ lose your mind.” 

Hesitating, Em adds, “I know I’m not good for you,” to which Colson snorts rudely, but Em just continues, “I know I can be… cold. You said that I - that I _ruined_ you.” 

Colson’s cheeks warm at the reminder, guilt swirling through him. “It’s not true,” he says, all gravel, “Or if it is, we took turns getting me to that point. I’m such a fuckin’ idiot.” 

“You are,” Em says, “So what does that make me?” 

“I’ll tell you when I see you,” Colson says, and it comes out dripping with desire, so much so that Colson blushes to the roots of his hair. 

“Does that mean… ?”

“Yeah. Asshole. I forgive you. Of _course_ I forgive you.” 

* * *

  
“Goin’ out with your sugar daddy again?” Slim asks as Colson descends the stairs in what is actually a date night outfit, unbeknownst to anybody but him and Marshall.  
  
“Fuck off, he’s only in town until tomorrow,” Colson says, “We got _important shit_ to talk about.” 

“Uh-huh,” Slim says, “Think you’re wearing enough cologne?”  
  
Colson stops in the middle of checking his hair for the fifth consecutive time in his phone’s front-facing camera to narrow his eyes at Slim. “What’re you implying?” 

“Nothing, nothing.” Slim holds his hands up in surrender. “Have fun.” 

“Slim’s onto us,” Colson tells Marshall, once he’s slid in next to him in the backseat of his SUV and greeted him with a peck on the mouth.  
  
Marshall grins at him, and it makes Colson’s insides all shivery, even now.  
  
“I’d be more surprised if he didn’t know,” Marshall says, remarkably casual about it. “He says you never shut up about me. You’re tormenting the poor kid.”  
  
Marshall’s smugness makes Colson want to kill him. Or, like, stick his tongue down his throat. He’s been confusing the two impulses for years.  
  
“Ew,” Colson says, “I don’t like that y’all talk about me behind my back.”

Marshall’s smile softens. “It’s nothin’ I don’t already tell you. Like how slutty you look in these prissy-ass clothes.” 

Colson makes a high-pitched, indignant noise. “Custom Balmain isn’t _slutty_. Also, tell me you ain’t talking about me like that to my fuckin’ _brother_.” 

“Naw. I just wanted to watch your face do that cute blotchy thing.” 

Colson huffs. “You are…”

“Yeah, yeah. You love me, though.” 

Colson gives him a mutinous look, but when Marshall shifts closer to him for a real kiss - one hand cupping the back of his neck and the other trailing from his knee to his waist - he meets his mouth with his usual eagerness; breaking through the seam of Marshall’s lips with his tongue, slipping his hand under his shirt so he can probe his fingers over his fevered bare skin. They stop themselves just short of grinding against each other like animals, straining the limits of the privacy partition separating them from Marshall’s driver.  
  
“Jesus,” Colson mutters, half-hard in his pants and valiantly attempting to rescue his mind from the gutter, “Every time. I’m tryna be _classy_ here.” 

“Fuck that,” Marshall says, cheerful, flushed.

“Mm,” Colson concedes, sinking his thumb into Marshall’s hipbone, “Excellent point.”  
  
Minutes later, Marshall interrupts a heady sequence of progressively more heated kisses to say, “I do wanna talk about the record, though,” and what with the rough edge to his voice and everything _the record_ represents to Colson, it’s maybe the sexiest thing Marshall’s ever said to him.  
  
“So let’s talk about it,” Colson says, and then smiles against Marshall’s lips at the inadvertent throwback to the diss track that had been one of the primary catalysts for their early relationship.  
  
The reference isn’t lost on Marshall, a quiet laugh sputtering out of him as he says, “Wow. Ancient history.”  
  
Colson leans back in his seat to look him in the eyes, his thoughts jittering. “You remember how, back then, I was sayin’ all that dramatic bullshit about our beef being this, like, _grand battle_ between the past and future of rap?”  
  
Marshall laughs again. “Yeah. I co-signed that bullshit by letting it get under my skin.”  
  
“Well,” Colson says, so excited to get his next words out that he’s almost vibrating, “Us collabing now is like, the future _fucking_ the past.”  
  
Marshall grimaces, instantly coming back with, “You mean the _past_ fucking the _future_.” 

“Nuh-uh,” Colson says childishly, “The past probably has trouble gettin’ it up without the future.” 

“Doesn’t mean the future ain’t bending right over every time the past says so. And also, fuck you, you suck at metaphors.” 

“You suck in general.” 

“You suck _pathologically_. Your tombstone’s gonna say, _he died as he lived: sucking_.” 

“Your mom sucks.” 

“Oof, hitting me in the childhood trauma. You been talking to my alter ego?” 

“Yeah, he’s better in bed than you. Bigger cock.” 

“It’s the same cock.” 

“Not the way he uses it.” Colson pauses after he says this to stare at Marshall for a beat, lips twitching.

And then they simultaneously burst into laughter, Marshall’s hand covering his eyes and Colson’s hand covering his mouth as they lean into each other.  
  
“ _How_ do we have the same stupid sense of humor when you’re two decades older than me,” Colson asks when he can speak, the last of his giggles petering off.  
  
“Don’t remind me,” Marshall says. Though he is glowing with residual mirth, there’s an undercurrent of melancholy to his voice when he says it.  
  
Colson kisses his forehead, the tip of his nose, and his cheek in swift succession. He dutifully says, “I won’t leave you when you turn 60.”  
  
Marshall seems to shrink in on himself. “I barely accepted passing 50 and you’re makin’ me think about 60? Fuck. I hope I just _drop dead_ at 55.” 

“No!” Colson is possibly a little more distraught than the situation warrants. “You’re gonna live forever, like some weird old vampire feeding on my come.” 

“Ugh,” Marshall says, wrinkling his nose. “Thank you for that extremely flattering image.”  
  
Colson is too strangled by apprehension and waves of chronic grief to laugh at Marshall’s disgust. He bows his head. “Promise me you won’t ever disappear on me,” he says, his voice wobbling the slightest bit. “Like, out of the blue.” The specters of people he's lost and goodbyes he's never spoken collate over him.  
  
Marshall traces the line of his jaw with his thumb, drawing his eye. “I promise we’ll never fall asleep hating each other,” Marshall says, and even though it isn’t the answer Colson wanted, it might be exactly the one he needs. They kiss, and this time all the sharp edges are blunted by pure affection and mutual understanding.  
  
“I’m lowkey obsessed with you,” Colson breathes into the gap between their mouths, and Marshall says, “Mood,” borrowing a pet phrase of Colson’s with the obvious intention of making him laugh.  
  
Which he _does_ , rolling his eyes and saying, “God, you’re _so_ old.”  
  
This sets off another round of bickering that lasts until they arrive at their restaurant of choice, and are forced to untangle themselves from each other so as to exit the car looking like the platonic business partners they most definitely are not.  
  
There’s this one specific paparazzi picture of them that comes out later, showing Eminem shielding half of his face with his hand and standing on his toes to say something to Machine Gun Kelly, who appears to be listening attentively, his body curled towards his companion, his left palm hovering over his back in a seemingly protective gesture.  
  
Paul FaceTimes Marshall about it the same day it hits the internet. “What the actual fuck, Em,” he says, coming in hot. “We talked about this. You and your - ”

“‘sup, Rosenberg,” Colson interjects, choosing to alert Paul to his presence out of frame before he says anything potentially hurtful. 

“Kells,” Paul says after an awkward pause, sighing heavily. “Of course. How are you?” 

“I’m _awesome_ ,” Colson says, trying to keep his instinctive combativeness in check. The call disintegrates after that, too much going unsaid and too little in the way of excuses to patch it up with, and Paul promptly hangs up after telling Marshall to call him back when he’s less _occupied_. 

“Guy’s a douche,” Colson says, sniffing. 

Marshall shrugs one shoulder. “He’s a goddamn saint for putting up with me as long as he has. He just, uh, doesn’t understand the risks I’m taking right now. I’ll bring him around.” 

Colson considers this. “That pic that everyone’s losing their shit over,” he starts, then trails off, unsure of what he’s truly asking. 

“It doesn’t bother me,” Marshall says simply, and Colson can see the truth of that statement in the ease of his posture, the placid blue waters of his irises. “People can speculate all they want. I’m seriously done letting the tide of public opinion control me. _You_ taught me that.” 

Colson stammers, blindsided by the gratitude accompanying that assertion. “Dude, no way. I’m not in any position to teach anyone anything, ‘specially not you.” 

“Bullshit,” Marshall says, taking his hand, squeezing it lightly. “You’ve taught me more than I can probably ever say. I can try, though. I can _show_ you, when telling you doesn’t work.”  
  
Colson envelops him in a sudden hug, overwhelmed, not trusting himself to speak without bawling like a baby.  
  
“I love you,” Marshall whispers, stroking his back soothingly, and in that moment, it feels like Marshall is sealing up the last of that old fracture in Colson’s heart with his name on it. 

“Love you too. So much,” Colson says, around the lump in his throat, and they hold each other like that for minutes on end, reminded with every breath that passes between them that what they have is worth the world. 

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Can you believe I seriously entertained the idea of attempting to write my own off-brand Eminem rap lyrics for a hot minute? Like I started researching song structure and rhyme schemes and shit. The narcissist jumped OUT... and then promptly slithered back IN because _who do I think I am lmao_. Thank goodness I snapped out of it. 
> 
> 2) If you would like to scream at/with me about these two chucklefucks you can HMU at metalheadkells dot tumblr dot com. 
> 
> 3) Edited with much pain and no caffeine into the Wee Hours so hopefully my tired brain caught most things that needed fixing. 
> 
> 4) If you liked this, I’d deeply appreciate you telling me! Comments encourage me to write more. 🖤
> 
> 5) Ending too sappy? :p


End file.
